The Sky Citadel's grand procession stretched before Magna like a gilded nightmare. Obsidian pillars carved with the anguished faces of conquered kings lined the path, their hollow eyes following her every step. The air hung thick with smoldering incense and the cloying sweetness of moonflower garlands—Xianthos' traditional death bloom. Every rustle of her shimmering gold gown, its intricate black beadwork catching the light, sent the Storm-Onyx beads sewn into the hem clicking like bones, a macabre counterpoint to the sacred ceremony.
At the summit of the blood-red stairs, where the altar stood waiting, the royal triad sat frozen in tableau:
King Cyrus dominated the dais, his massive frame draped in a mantle of dark, heavy fabrics, perhaps the hides of mythical beasts, adorned with plates of what looked like solidified magma, pulsing with an inner, malevolent glow. The ceremonial scepter in his grip—a relic from the Mongthar Wars, weighty and scarred—was less a symbol of office than a barely sheathed weapon. His gaze, shrewd and unyielding, swept over the assembly.
Queen Livia perched beside him, her famed beauty sharpened into something venomous, her elegant, coiffed hair pinned with diamond pins, each one rumored to hold enough poison to drop a warhorse. Her jeweled fingers, tipped with long, polished nails, curled around the throne's arms like a raptor's talons, ready to strike.
And Lucien.
Always Lucien.
He stood apart from his parents, a pristine figure amidst the dark majesty. His lean frame clad in a pristine white tunic intricately embroidered with delicate gold patterns that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. A heavy, deep purple cloak, lined with emerald green, cascaded from his broad shoulders, secured by elaborate silver clasps set with gleaming, oval-cut emeralds. More of these radiant green gems adorned the shoulder plates of his attire, their facets catching the torchlight with every subtle movement. Around his neck, a substantial, ornate silver chain descended to a striking pendant—two large, teardrop-shaped emeralds linked by a smaller, circular one. His dark, impeccably styled hair framed his features, contrasting sharply with the warm, amber glow of his eyes, which tracked her ascent with the intensity of a swordsman measuring his killing stroke. Three faint, crescent-shaped markings were etched beneath each eye, subtle yet distinct, adding an enigmatic touch to his otherwise serene expression. His lips, a neutral, soft pink, were pressed into a thin line of anticipation.
Magna's breath hitched.
He's more beautiful than I remembered.
The treacherous thought shocked her, a flicker of that old, dangerous attraction. To her left, Leolvhant leaned against a pillar with practiced nonchalance, his honey-gold hair spilling over one shoulder, illuminated by the stained glass. He spun a dagger across his knuckles, its blade glinting. His royal blue robes flowed around him, his shoulders adorned with elaborate pauldrons crafted from carved jade and sky-turquoise, from which tiers of smaller, teardrop-shaped teal gems dangled, catching the light. The matching silver bangle, set with emerald jade and storm-onyx, gleamed at his wrist—their conspirator's brand, cold and solid. When their emerald eyes met, a fleeting understanding passed between them, and he winked.
Showtime.
The High Priestess, ancient and wizened, raised her moonstone staff, its tip glowing faintly. "We gather to—"
"I cannot proceed."
Magna's voice, though soft, rang through the basilica like a funeral bell, clear and cutting through the heavy silence. A thousand nobles gasped as one, a collective wave of shock. King Cyrus' scepter froze mid-tap, his eyes narrowing to slits.
The basilica erupted in confused murmurs and gasps, quickly swelling into a shocked clamor.
Leolvhant stepped forward with a storyteller's grace, his royal blue robes swirling lightly as he moved. "Your Majesties, the Kazarothi blood debt remains unpaid." His slender fingers touched the subtle crescent scar at his temple, a testament to a forgotten skirmish. "When assassins infiltrated the summer palace twelve winters past, I, Prince Leolvhant, took a blade protecting Princess Magna. Our bracelets—" he lifted his wrist, the intertwined Emerald Jade and Storm-Onyx gleaming, a striking testament to both Xianthosi and Korythaei connection, "—were forged by royal smiths, not merely as trinkets, but to seal that oath of life-debt. To break such a bond..."
The High Priestess' gnarled staff struck the polished marble floor with a resounding crack, silencing the murmurs. "Would curse both kingdoms! A desecration of sacred rite!"
The High Priestess's gnarled fingers, yellowed with age, closed around Magna's wrist with surprising strength, her nails scraping against the cool silver bangle. The ancient woman's milky, sightless eyes rolled back into her head as she began to chant in the Old Tongue, a guttural, resonant sound that vibrated through the basilica. Her moonstone pectoral, nestled within the folds of her ceremonial robes, began glowing faintly, casting an ethereal light.
A collective gasp, louder than the first, rippled through the basilica as the bangle on Magna's wrist began pulsing with a soft, inner light. The Storm-Onyx, dark and enigmatic, pulsed in time with Leolvhant's matching bracelet, visible even across the distance, their gemstones emitting an eerie, harmonic hum that filled the vast hall.
"By the Three-Faced Goddess!" the priestess croaked, her voice cracking, dropping Magna's arm as if burned. Her hand trembled as she pointed a shaking finger at the tiny three-peaked mountain symbol etched into the silver of Magna's bangle. "These were forged in the sacred fires of Mount Vethys—see the smith's mark? A bond witnessed by the oldest gods! To break such an oath would bring the Mountain's Curse upon us all! A plague of famine, pestilence, and unending war!"
The Duke of Emberhold, a man of booming voice and inflated pride, surged to his feet, his crimson robes swirling around his bulky frame. "Preposterous! This so-called debt was never recorded in the royal archives! A fabrication!"
"Because it was meant to be secret, you blustering fool," Leolvhant drawled, spinning his dagger lazily, his emerald eyes holding a sharp glint of challenge. "Or do you accuse my late mother, Queen Danya, of forgery? A woman revered across both Kazaroth and Xianthos for her unwavering honesty?"
The duke, for all his bluster, paled significantly at the mention of the formidable Queen Danya, her memory enough to quell his outrage.
From the deeper shadows near the royal retinue, Grand Vizier Orlan stepped forward, his slight frame appearing frail against the grandeur of the hall, his silver-threaded beard trembling with barely contained outrage. "Your Majesty, consider—if we allow this farce, this blatant interception of the bridal procession, the Korythaei will demand renegotiation of the entire trade accord! The very stability of the realm is at stake!"
Lucien's voice cut through the lingering chaos like a blade through silk, calm and utterly commanding. "Enough."
All eyes turned to the crown prince as he descended the dais steps, his pristine white tunic and deep purple cloak flowing with his movements. His amber eyes swept over the assembly, quelling dissent with their silent intensity. He stopped before his brother, their matching heights making them mirror images—one dark and calculating in his cool whites and purples, the other lighter, radiating effortless charm in his vibrant blues and golds.
"You would bind yourself to Xianthos, Leolvhant?" Lucien asked softly, his voice smooth as Ember-Jade. "No more fleeing to Kazaroth's steppes when court life chafes? No more convenient exiles when duty calls?"
Leolvhant's smirk didn't quite reach his emerald eyes, which held a deeper, almost desperate resolve. "For Magna? I'd suffer even your tedious war councils, brother. And claim my birthright, as is due."
Across the altar, Lucien's dagger-sharp inhale was audible, a subtle hitch of breath that betrayed his carefully constructed calm. Something unreadable flickered in Lucien's amber gaze as he turned to study Magna, his eyes sweeping over her from head to foot. The intensity of his gaze made her skin prickle with unwanted warmth, a memory of a different kind of connection that was now poisoned by betrayal.
"Very well." Lucien's voice carried through the silent hall, firm and resonant. "Let the debt be honored. Let the Mountain's Curse be averted." His gaze lingered on Magna, a possessive darkness in their depths. "But mark this—the princess remains in Xianthos. As does her... husband." The last word, 'husband,' dripped with an icy precision that promised future reckoning.
As the High Priestess, recovering her composure, began chanting the ancient binding rites, her voice gaining strength, Magna caught the way Lucien's long, elegant fingers twitched toward his sword hilt, a restless, barely perceptible motion. Not in overt anger, but something far more dangerous—the habitual movement of a man already calculating, already planning how to undo what had just been done, how to reclaim what he saw as his.
The bangles on their wrists hummed louder, the emerald jade and storm-onyx glowing in tandem as Leolvhant gently took her hand, his touch firm and reassuring, their magic sealing the audacious lie into a new, binding truth.
Across the altar, Lucien watched them, his amber eyes burning with the hungry, possessive gaze of a wolf denied its rightful meal, a predator simply biding his time.
As Leolvhant turned to guide her toward the newly designated section of the altar for the binding ceremony, his fingers brushed the small of Magna's back - just long enough for her to feel the small, folded note tucked against her spine. His lips curved in a brief, triumphant smile that didn't quite reach his serious emerald eyes.
And as Magna took her place beside the 'wrong' prince, the hum of the bangles a thrumming beat in her veins, she looked from Leolvhant's focused profile to Lucien's simmering fury across the altar. A chilling realization dawned upon her, a tightening in her chest that had nothing to do with magic or curses.
For the first time since her rebirth, Magna wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.